


and sidewalks to walk on

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the middle of a firefight, trevor stops answering michael. at last, everything makes sense. takes place during/after ending c.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and sidewalks to walk on

**Author's Note:**

> this is self indulgent fluff and im sorry 
> 
>  
> 
> [recommended listening](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7k7ueRrKRmo)

It’s all come down to this. He and Trevor were summoned by Franklin and Lester, told that they had to get to this remote warehouse and that they are in danger—not that it's the first time that important people have wanted them dead. It certainly won’t be the last. But regardless, Michael arms himself to the teeth and shows up where he’s told (and later, when he finally has a moment to reflect on this event, he will be unbearably proud of Franklin, who has grown so professional and level headed and who has managed to take the best of he and Trevor and combine them, and he just has something in his eye, damn it, he’s not crying) and for the first bit, everything is going alright. 

But then Franklin runs outside to help Lamar when he's pinned down by more men, and Michael can’t see Trevor anymore, and when he calls out for him over the headset, there’s no response. Fuck. He blows the heads off of a couple more agents, ducking down again so that he can tell Franklin that he thinks Trevor is in trouble, shit, someone has to check on him. But Franklin is stuck helping Lamar, he says, so Michael will have to be the one to find Trevor. Michael tries again, one last time, snapping Trevor’s name over the line with a clear edge of frustration in his voice.

Trevor isn’t answering. Michael feels himself slip into that blue haze that sometimes comes over him—when his heartbeat thrums in his ears and everything is calm and still and he can nail headshot after headshot. Trevor is not answering him. Trevor always answers him when they’re on a job. He raises his gun again and fires. Lowers it. Turns and runs. He has to get to Trevor. 

The world moves sluggishly around him. All he can hear is Trevor, Trevor, Trevor—Trevor is hurt and he is not answering and he will be bloody and dead on the floor like Brad was when Michael told Trevor to run, fuck, _run_ get away from here and now Michael has killed him anyway. Oh, God, what has he done?

He screams around a corner and into cover. Trevor. Trevor is sitting there, with his shotgun in his lap. He’s reloading. He’s breathing. Time slams to a complete stop. Michael looks at him. He’s alive. He’s unhurt. And in that one, single heartbeat, where everything is frozen, Michael sees clearly. Everything he has worked so hard to avoid realizing for almost thirty years (but especially for the last two months) crashes over him like unruly waves from the Alamo Sea, or snow from a North Yankton blizzard, or explosions from a distant RPG. 

He is in love with Trevor Philips. Everything he has ever wanted and feared and run from is encapsulated in that one simple thought. 

_Oh._

And with a vertiginous jolt, time races forward, and Trevor is looking at him strangely, still loading his weapon. Fuckin' a, has he always been this beautiful? Trevor’s lips twitch. Michael’s eyes are drawn to his delicate cupid’s bow. He is breathless and enraptured and nauseous and his heart is pounding in his fucking ears. 

Trevor quirks a brow at him in question. Michael tips forward, his gun clattering to the ground as his hands go to cup Trevor’s face. The kiss is not pretty or smooth or poetic—it’s all raw need and fear and pain, and then their teeth click together and Michael is pressing his tongue against Trevor’s parted lips and trying to breathe his apology out of his throat and into Trevor’s. At first, Trevor is startled, his fingers flying to Michael’s lower back to keep himself steady, an indulgent chuckle vibrating against Michel’s lips. But Michael is putting his everything into this, kissing Trevor with everything he has in the hopes that somehow Trevor will feel the vibrations in Michael’s very bones, and know that he loves him. 

Trevor clutches at Michael’s sides, pulling him impossibly close, making low, pitiful whimpering noises that reverberate down Michael’s spine and to his cock, and for fuck’s sake, he wants nothing more than to pound Trevor through the floor of this warehouse with his face pressed in Trevor’s neck with love and apologies on his lips. Michael is pushing them halfway to the floor, already, but Trevor is pushing them back up, his loaded gun still in his lap and pressed between them. 

Trevor pulls back to catch his stolen breath, but Michael tugs him in again and kisses him and hopes that Trevor understands that it means that he’s sorry, he was an idiot, he was cruel and awful and he’s so glad Trevor is alive and here and that he still loves him even though he fucked everything up so badly that it may be beyond repair. 

Trevor seems to get the idea, smirking against Michael’s mouth and indulging him for a bit longer. It’s not until several bullets graze the concrete half-wall they’re crouched behind that Trevor actually works to extract himself from Michael’s arms, but Michael is unrelenting. He continues to plant kisses over Trevor’s shoulders and arms and neck and face and anywhere he can reach, even as Trevor is peeking out of cover and shooting their attackers. Franklin must hear Michael’s incoherent murmuring about how Michael is so sorry, he was an asshole, fuck, he was a jerk, and he thought Trevor was hurt or dead and holy shit, he is so, so sorry, because a voice comes cracking in his ear.

“Can y’all please save this until after we get the fuck outta here?” Franklin snaps in his earpiece. Trevor chuckles, and Michael sits back, his hands on his gun as he tries to ground himself in the moment again.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, Frank.” He says, an embarrassed flush coloring his cheeks. He chides himself softly, muttering that he has to get it the fuck together, Christ, Townley, while Trevor downs at least ten men. The rest of the fight is a blur. Michael’s memory is of people shouting and his finger on the trigger and everything being tinted blue. They split up to decimate the shitheads who set them up for this, and then they’re all pushing a car off a cliff and everything begins to come back into focus. His adrenaline fades. His hands are shaking a little, and his heart is still racing. Franklin grins and Trevor whoops and Michael realizes that they fuckin’ did it. They pulled it off. They’re safe. 

He and Trevor lock eyes. Michael swallows, every particle of his being screaming for Trevor, for his touch, his taste, his sounds (Christ almighty, his sounds), even the awful smell of him is intoxicating from where Michael is standing. He can see in Trevor’s heated gaze that he feels the same. Franklin stands, forgotten, between them. 

“A’ight, I’ll, uh. Catch up with y’all later, I guess.” He says, clearly sensing the coming collision. Gravel crunches under his feet as he turns to walk away. Michael isn’t sure if Trevor has the grace to wait until Franklin has averted his eyes or if (more likely) he doesn’t notice Franklin’s coming and going at all, but as soon as Franklin finishes speaking, Trevor surges forward. He grabs Michael by the back of the neck, slamming their mouths together in a heated, sloppy kiss. It’s forceful enough that Michael falls against the door of his car, his back pressed against the warm metal while Trevor grinds their hips together. 

Michael hears Franklin’s bemused chuckle in the distance, and hopes vaguely that he’ll be able to look Frank in the face after this. He slips his hands around Trevor’s hips, his nails digging into the thin, grimy material of his sweatpants, grinding them together in a desperate attempt to communicate his need. They break apart to pant hungrily, though Trevor continues to lick and nuzzle at him as he digs in his pants for his keys. They have to get the hell out of here. 

“Fuck me in the back of your car.” Trevor’s voice is muffled from where his face is buried in Michael’s neck. Michael shudders, his dick jumping at the thought. God, he wants to. But no. They’ve had plenty of quick fucks in the backs of cars, and they will have more. He wants Trevor in a bed, ideally all night long. He opens the door, flipping them and extracting himself from Trevor’s arms so that he can make his way to the driver’s side. 

“I have plans for you, T.” He hisses when he slides into the car. Trevor squirms in his seat, antsy and wanting. Michael starts the car, but then Trevor is leaning over the middle console and running his hand between Michael’s legs and rubbing his erection through his pants, and _goddamn_ , he’s really getting old if all it takes is some heavy petting to make him want to blow his fucking lode. 

Michael is fuzzy-headed with lust, his thoughts coming slower as Trevor drops hungry, needy kisses over his neck and shoulder and jaw from the passenger seat of his car. All he knows is that they need a bed _now_. Distantly, he remembers that his children—fuck, his wife—are home, and they cannot use his. Trevor’s is too far and too small, and he only has a damn couch in the city. He needs to get them to a hotel. Fast. 

He fumbles with his phone, his fingers betraying him as he tries to work the small screen. Finally, he finds a hotel and books a room as quickly as he can with Trevor’s hands running over him. His phone pings, and he saves the email they send him with one of those weird square barcodes that look like TV static for him to scan when they get where they’re headed.

“God bless technology.” Michael mutters as he slams the car into drive, peeling into the street and flooring it all the way downtown. Trevor continues to stroke and bite and lick at him, his needy noises trickling into Michael’s ear and keeping him hard enough that he thinks he might burst. 

Distantly, a little voice reminds him that he has a family, that he’s promised Amanda that things would be different, that he would stop cheating and that he would stop robbing and that he would stop killing, but he’s consumed by the too-recent realization that he could have lost Trevor, really, actually lost him, and that he would have never told him that he is sorry and that he loves him, fuck, he’s in love with him and he never should have left him behind like that, never should have paid his debts with Trevor’s life—he’s starting to trip over his own thoughts, drowning in his guilt, until Trevor croons his name in his ear and digs his stubby nails into Michael’s bicep and brings him back to Earth. 

They’ve arrived at their destination, his GPS chirps, and they practically throw themselves out of the car. They fall together, hands roaming as they enter the tall, shiny building and bypass the front desk, swiping an elevator all for themselves where Trevor peppers his jaw with filthy kisses that feature his swirling tongue. The door dings open and there are people waiting to get in and they probably don’t want to see two quickly-aging men with dried blood and sweat on them dry humping in the elevator, but that’s life: you can’t always get what you want. 

They stumble out and down the hall, searching frantically for their room with only one brief stops to grind on each other against a stranger’s door until they find their own. Michael fumbles with his phone again, pressing the screen to the fancy bullshit lock on the door and thank fucking God it opens.

They don’t even bother turning the lights on; they come through the door in a whirlwind of teeth and tongue, and Michael could swear he’s twenty-five again and fresh off a big job, the way his blood is rushing and his heart is thrumming in his ears. He and Trevor tumble down into the plush, carefully set sheets, and Michael kisses everywhere he possibly can: Trevor’s face, Trevor’s neck, Trevor’s shoulders, Trevor’s chest (impeded by that awful, grimy, gray-white shirt as he is), anywhere he can make landfall, he does. Trevor is writhing and gasping under him, clawing at his back and canting his hips up into Michael with desperate, consuming need. 

Michael breathes against his salty, musky skin that he loves him, good God, he loves him, and he’s so, so, so sorry—he could have killed him, Trevor could be dead and it would be his fault, and he’s _so_ sorry. He’s fought this—he has run from it and hidden from it and feared it, and a voice in his ear is still whispering that he’s a failure and a fag and perhaps worst of all, he’s powerless. Trevor has always loved him and Michael has always dangled his affection just out of reach, even when he was steadfastly ignoring the way his atoms screamed to collide with Trevor’s, because it kept them unbalanced. It kept Michael in control.

But fuck that voice. Fuck fear. Fuck withholding power and fuck hurting Trevor for his own safety. Their tongues are sliding together again and Michael is in awe with how perfectly their lips fit together. How has he not noticed this before? How has he not felt the singing in his blood when the pads of Trevor’s fingertips brush his bare skin? They’ve fucked for twenty years and Michael has taken it all for granted. 

He draws back, his weight resting heavily on Trevor, his gaze skittering over Trevor’s face in an urgent attempt to take in his glazed eyes, his flushed cheeks, his quick, short breaths—he is _beautiful._ His hand goes to Trevor’s face, caressing his jaw, running his thumb over the rough skin stretched over Trevor’s cheekbones. He takes in the scar that slices through his lip, mirrored by the one that bisects his brow. He wants to lick those scars—to run the flat of his tongue over all of these marks that tell the story of Trevor until it’s written on the inside of his mouth, too. 

He opens his mouth to tell Trevor he’s so sorry, he didn’t know, no, no, he _did_ know, he was a coward and a snake just like Trevor said, but he loves him, he loves him, he loves him. When he opens his mouth to tell him, though, he says something else altogether. 

“Fuck me.” He breathes. Trevor looks startled for a moment, before a wave of visible lust rolls over his features, his hips stuttering up to meet Michael’s from where he is underneath him. Michael wants Trevor to fuck him—he wants Trevor to take him and hurt him and use him like Michael used Trevor all these years. He wants Trevor to ravage him, to make him pay in his body and in his blood for his sin. He wants, perversely, for Trevor to dominate him in every possible way. It’s never been an urge he’s felt before, but his body is screaming for it now—for Trevor to destroy him. He wants to be a peace offering or, more likely, a sacrifice. Trevor has never hurt him, but he wants him to now. He wants Trevor to beat the shit out of him and fuck him stupid. He wants Trevor to bind him to the headboard and punish him for what he’s done. The guilt and desire and self-loathing and love are at war within him. 

But Trevor is surging up to meet him, wrapping his arms around Michael’s broad shoulders and drawing them together, kissing him with careful gentility, like if he presses too hard, Michael will evaporate. Michael rolls over onto his back, dragging Trevor on top of him while Trevor’s fingers slip under his shirt, mapping his skin with tentative, shaking fingers. Michael is surprised. For years, he and Trevor have fucked with animal brutality, and now that Michael is finally, finally, _finally_ able to see just how majestic and fearsome Trevor is, he becomes a timid, shaking flower. 

He wants Trevor to hit him. Selfishly, he wants Trevor to absolve him of his guilt, to do something that will level the valley he carved between them so that he can stop feeling crushed beneath the weight of it. Trevor won’t do it, Michael knows. He can feel Trevor trembling against him, kissing him like Michael’s mouth is the only church he’s ever known. To spill Michael’s blood would be the gravest sin Trevor could commit. But Michael needs him to do it. 

“Fuck me.” He says again, and Trevor groans and ruts down against him, fisting his hands in Michael’s hair and dragging his head back so he can nibble at Michael’s exposed neck. Michael claws at him; trying to get rid of any articles of clothing he can get his hands on. Trevor gets the idea and strips himself of his shirt, finally taking action and following it up by grabbing Michael’s collar and tearing his dress shirt open, sending buttons flying all over the room. Michael groans, allowing himself to acknowledge that he is incredibly fucking aroused by the raw masculinity behind the action. 

“Be real, _real_ careful, princess,” Trevor says, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them off while Michael fumbles with his own suit pants, “You keep makin’ those noises,” Trevor’s hand trails down over Michael’s stomach and to the waist band of his striped boxers, “and begging me to fuck you, you miiiight just get what you ask for.” Trevor’s warm palm closes around Michael’s shaft, and Michael bucks into his hand with a shaky cry. The growled threat sends a shiver through him, and yes, yes, that’s exactly what he wants. 

“Fuck, fuck, holy _shit_ , T, please, shit, fuck me, I need—I need—” But he doesn’t manage to stutter out what exactly it is he needs. Trevor’s mouth covers his, cutting off his frantic rambling, and Michael is grateful. Trevor’s lips are warm and chapped and he kisses Michael like he actually gives a shit, and it’s been so long since anyone has cared and of _course_ Trevor cares, of course he loves him, he always has and Michael fucked up monumentally and he has to fix this, he has to. And the only way he knows how to do that is to give Trevor all of himself, the way Trevor had done years and years ago, and again thousands of times since then. 

Trevor’s tongue is in his mouth, his moans vibrating down Michael’s throat as he does his damnedest to drink him up. Michael can feel the cheap fabric of Trevor’s disgusting briefs against his thighs, and he wants them off, but he’s too busy trying not to blow his load early to communicate the desire. Trevor, luckily, is ahead of him and scoots away, dragging Michael’s boxers off and away before getting off the bed completely.

“Roll over, beautiful.” There’s always a sarcastic edge to Trevor’s voice, but this time it’s more playful than condescending. Michael feels like a teenage girl, flushed and nervous, but mortifyingly eager. He gets himself onto all fours, thinking he looks a little silly with his ass in the air. He’s hears Trevor hiss at the sight from where he’s gone to get a condom out of Michael’s wallet.

“As _delicious_ as you look like that, Mikey, I meant on your side.” He grabs Michael’s hip and pulls him so that he’s lying facing the far wall. Michael glances over his shoulder, clenching his jaw to keep from swearing aloud at the sight of Trevor (who has gotten rid of his briefs somewhere along the way) kneeling on the mattress, lubing his fingers generously while his cock bobs lazily in Michael’s direction.

Michael sighs before he can stop himself, and judging by the way Trevor glances up at him with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, he can tell that he sounded just as dreamy and lovestruck as he thinks he does. But everything is hitting him all at once—he’s feeling a whole fucking lot, thank you very much. He tries to be annoyed at Trevor’s smug look, but he’s distracted by how goddamn gorgeous Trevor is. Is he always this good looking? Has Michael just missed it all these years? Or has Trevor become beautiful since they last saw each other? 

He gives up that line of thought as Trevor lies down to spoon him. Michael swallows hard, his nervousness jumping in his chest. Trevor’s dry hand goes to Michael’s stomach, stroking all around his cock but not quite touching him as he circles one slick digit around Michael’s asshole. Trevor leans into him, mouthing at Michael’s earlobe and breathing gentle encouragement to him as he slides his first finger inside of him. Michael hisses, feeling oddly at peace. It hurts a little, but it’s not bad. It’s strange. But his mind is blissfully blank for the first time in, well, forever? Nothing exists but Trevor’s mouth on his ear and Trevor’s finger inside of him and Trevor’s palm on his dick. It’s weirdly pleasant. 

“Fuckin’ a.” He mumbles when Trevor moves his finger carefully, curling it just barely so that it brushes against the fabled spot Trevor loves for Michael to touch in him. Holy shit. Michael groans, his mouth dropping open and his whole body tightening with pleasure as it suddenly becomes _very_ apparent why Trevor likes this so much. It feels amazing. “Christ, T.” Michael pants. Trevor drags his finger out until only the very tip remains, adding another and pushing back in fully. It stings a little, again, but Trevor is scissoring his fingers and it’s weird, but in a really good way. 

“You look so fuckin’ good like this, M.” Trevor whispers. “I’ve been dying to get you on my cock for years,” Trevor’s voice is all gravel and it sends sparks shooting down Michael’s spine. Trevor twists his fingers, stretching Michael with slow pumps until Michael is pushing back into him, moving in time with his thrusting palm. Trevor adds a third at last, and Michael feels so full he thinks he’s going to break open. It burns, but Trevor is so gentle and careful (and he knows that Trevor knows how this hurts, he thinks with a twinge of guilt) and he needs this and Trevor needs it and after they finish here, they will maybe, possibly, somehow be on the road to being better again.

“You ready, cupcake?” Trevor asks, pulling out of Michael and resting the tip of his cock at Michael’s entrance. Michael feels himself shaking under Trevor’s hands, his cock wilting slightly with the pain of their preparation. Trevor is soothing the goosebumps that have sprung up over Michael’s hip, trailing down until he grasps the base of Michael’s cock loosely, waiting for him to give the go-ahead. 

He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so instead he nods tightly, his eyes fluttering shut as he rolls his head back to rest against Trevor’s shoulder. Trevor strokes him with a sure, steady hand as he begins to press inside of Michael. They groan in unison, Michael’s breathing is coming short and fast as he tries to keep himself relaxed. Trevor is gasping praise in his ear, and Michael glows. He has always enjoyed being the subject of people’s fantasies, and Trevor swearing in his ear and telling him that he’s so good and hot and he’s everything, no one can ever be better, no one has ever _been_ better, feeds his ego in exactly the right way.

Michael pushes back to meet him, until they’re flush against each other. He exhales through his nose, slow and steady, taking in the way Trevor is shaking against him, obviously exerting a huge amount of control to keep himself from fucking Michael through the mattress right from the start. Michael moves his hips a little, and Trevor responds by giving one experimental thrust. Michael hisses, and Trevor thrusts again, his hand stroking Michael’s cock in time with his movement. 

It hurts less than Michael thinks it will. It stings and burns a little bit at first, but he gets weirdly accustomed to the feeling after a minute or two. Trevor’s hand on him feels good, but he’s being far gentler than Michael would have ever expected him to be. The thought annoys him—the knowledge that Michael has done this to Trevor and that he has been much harsher, much crueler, is made twice as painful by Trevor’s slow, long thrusts and careful hands. Trevor could get him back, could hurt him and unravel him and humiliate him, and Michael would let him, because he deserves it. But Trevor is being impossibly careful with him, and that is a punishment all it’s own. After everything, Trevor still can’t harm him.

“Harder.” Michael grinds out, and Trevor doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s oddly quiet, Michael notices—Trevor is usually all curses and praises and obscene noises, but he must be as caught up in his own thoughts as Michael is, because the only sounds in the room are the slap of skin against skin and their own heavy breathing. Michael is pushing back to meet every pulse of Trevor’s hips, trying desperately to find the angle that Trevor had gotten with his fingers to hit that damn _thing_ that feels like a match being struck inside him. 

“Talk to me, T.” He gasps, and that’s enough to shake Trevor from his thoughts. He gives a long, low groan and presses his lips to Michael’s ear again. The wash of his warm breath over Michael’s skin makes him shudder.

“Fuck, Michael—shit, you’re so. Fucking. Good!” Each word is punctuated with a sharp thrust. Trevor bites Michael’s neck and finally, finally they move together just right, and Trevor fills him and Michael’s whole body jerks in pleasure. “You’re fuckin’ _tight_ , Michael, Jesus, you’re perfect—ah, oh, shit—you’re so hot, M, _fuuuck_.” Trevor is groaning into Michael’s shoulder as he cuts himself off. Michael is rolling down to meet him, but Trevor isn’t quite able to hilt himself in Michael at this angle. He needs more—more of what, exactly, he isn’t quite sure, but he begs Trevor for it anyways, and Trevor seems to understand what Michael needs.

For a torturous moment, Trevor pulls out of Michael completely. Michael moans softly in petulant protest, but then Trevor is turning him onto his back and shoving his legs apart roughly, his movements harsh and stuttering as he lowers himself on top of Michael and thrusts into him. 

“Holy shit, Trevor.” Michael pants, his breath nearly knocked out of him. He lifts his legs to wrap around the backs of Trevor’s thighs, keeping him as close as he can. Trevor dips his head down to Michael’s collarbone and further to his chest, leaving bites and licks over the freckle-dappled skin there. Michael winds his arms around Trevor’s shoulders, his hands mapping Trevor’s strong, muscled back, fingers tracing the ripple of strength that rolls through him with every snap of his hips against Michael’s. Trevor’s hard stomach is brushing against Michael’s cock, and he’s twisting his hips perfectly and it feels so, so good. Trevor flicks his eyes up to meet Michaels as he bites harder, lifting his mouth a fraction of an inch above the skin so that he can speak to Michael again.

“Fuck, Michael, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” Trevor snakes a hand between them and wraps it around Michael’s aching dick, and Michael makes a noise somewhere between a sob and a moan. He’s close, and Trevor is too. Whenever Trevor starts telling him how much he loves him, Michael knows he’s going to come. Something about that thought twists in him and _hurts_ , and for the first time, Michael doesn’t want to hold back.

“Trevor, Trevor, shit,” Michael pants, dragging his hands back up over Trevor’s shoulders and to his jaw, turning his face and drawing him closer so that they’re nose to nose, “oh, God, Trevor, I love you, fuck me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and he peppers sloppy, disorganized kisses on and around Trevor’s fucking perfect mouth, “I love you.” And he means it. He really does. Trevor crushes their mouths together, pressing his tongue into Michael’s mouth as they move together hard enough for the headboard to smack into the wall rhythmically.

“Michael—I’m—I’m gonna—” Trevor’s thrusts are stuttering and erratic. His hand around Michael is hot and slick, and the feeling of Trevor completely inside him is a strange kind of incredible. But he wants to put someone else first for once in his terrible fucking life, so he cups Trevor’s face again, like he did on the floor of that damned warehouse when he thought he would lose him forever and rests their foreheads together. He swipes his thumb over Trevor’s jaw with slow, sweeping sureness and runs his other hand up the back of Trevor’s neck and into his hair.

“I know, baby. I know.” He kisses Trevor again, breaking apart only when a shudder racks through him as Trevor picks up his pace even further. 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Michael, I love you, I love you, I—” And then Trevor is shaking against him, coming inside him, and the feeling is foreign and bizarre and shockingly erotic. With a low curse, Michael follows him over the edge, coming hot and hard on his stomach. 

In the aftermath, Michael holds onto Trevor, stoking his neck and face like he’s a wild and easily spooked creature that Michael cannot trust enough to set free. His breathing is unsteady, his lashes fluttering on his cheekbones (Trevor has gorgeous cheekbones—how has Michael never noticed that? Or is it just the afterglow?) while Michael whispers that it’s okay, he’s okay, he loves him, everything is okay, they are both alive and well and thank God, because he loves him, he really, truly loves him.

Trevor holds himself in place, hovering over Michael’s quivering body while they both catch their breath. After a long moment simply breathing together, Michael’s hands drop down to wrap around Trevor’s forearms, trying to drag him down to lie with him. Trevor, however, has other plans. Michael’s not sure what he’s doing as he slithers downwards, pressing heated kisses to the slick, sweaty expanse of Michael’s chest until he gets to the sticky mess of come on Michael’s stomach.

Trevor swirls his tongue through it, lapping up every last drop of the cloudy substance until nothing is left but a shiny wet patch on Michael’s stomach. He moans softly, his palm smoothing over Trevor’s scalp, but Trevor isn’t coming back to him—he’s sinking lower still, and parting his legs even wider and, oh, Jesus _Christ_ , he’s plunging his tongue inside of him and sucking him clean and it feels fucking incredible. He’s holding onto Trevor’s skull and rolling his hips to meet his filthy, disgusting, amazing mouth while his cock twitches lazily where it lies in a pitiful pantomime of his younger years, when he could come and be hard again in five minutes, tops. 

Trevor’s tongue moves languidly in and out of him, soothing the soreness there with a wet slurping sound that seems impossibly sexy. Trevor kisses the inside of his thighs and up, up, up until he’s at Michael’s neck, his jaw, and at last, his lips. He tastes himself and Trevor all mixed together and smiles into the kiss, his hand snaking up to cup the back of Trevor’s neck, his fingers scraping and tickling the skin there gently. 

He may not ever be able to fix them. Even now, cold tendrils of paralyzing fear creep around his insides, grasping at his stomach and his heart, telling him that now it’s his turn to run, run, as fast as he can to get the hell away from how much Trevor makes him _feel_. He hates him and he loves him and he wants him and there is still a very small part of him that fears him, but he knows now more than ever that he cannot live without him. He’ll have to face whatever that means eventually, but tonight, he’ll allow himself a reprieve. Trevor’s hand is snaking between his legs again, and Michael decides that they can talk about the future later.


End file.
